The Heart of the Matter
by squeakykiki
Summary: Angsty songfic about BB after a failed attempt to make a romantic relationship work.


**Ok, I'm just gonna basically copy and paste the intro I wrote at the aby: Ok, first and foremost I have to thank the amazing Ms Will for this. She was far more supportive than I deserve and helped iron out some of the very embarrassing wrinkles.**

This is a songfic to "Heart of the Matter" by Don Henley. Love this song but, I have to say, Don and the Eagles perfected it. It's beautiful. The lyrics capture the feelings wonderfully.

Eh, now, I considered this simply being a one-shot. Will suggested perhaps a multi-chap. I don't know if I'd be able for that, but I'm willing to try if that's what people would like.

**Bones is not mine. Trust me. I'm trustworthy.**

Brennan sat silently in the dark, ignoring the chill that crept further into the room with every passing moment. Her limbs felt stiff, damaged by immobility. The sound of the sea crashed in her ear though she was sitting alone in her old, familiar apartment in D.C. She remained determinedly unaware of the searing tears that coursed down her cheeks.

_I got the call today, I didn't wanna hear_

She pressed her lips together and blinked rapidly a number of times. She tentatively stretched her fingers and winced at the popping sound that resounded around the room at the movement. Why had this left her so broken? Obviously, she would have been happier never knowing, but…

_But I knew that it would come._

Angela called her every Wednesday night without fail…or, at least, that's how the arrangement had started. But, as the weeks went on, the phone rang more and more intermittedly and it was now getting to the stage where Brennan was lucky to hear from her once a month. She never called Angela. She wasn't sure why.

_An old, true friend of ours was talkin' on the phone,_

The conversation had run smoothly at first, then had stuttered and faltered rather inevitably once the twenty minute mark was hit. Angela had filled Brennan in on her marriage with Hodgins and their impending bundle of joy (30 weeks along and the artist felt radiant). Brennan had told her friend of the latest developments at her new job but had spared her the boring details. She had the same basic job description…just a different location. Everyone had known why she'd left the Jeffersonian and nobody had ever really referred to it. Brennan cleared her throat awkwardly, for lack of anything else to say. A silence developed; it stretched and strained until Brennan was sure the connection must have been broken. Then, suddenly, Angela spoke, her voice reedy and hesitant.

"Um…sweetie?" she whispered.

_She said you'd found someone._

Everything had suddenly gone black. Brennan's mouth slackened and her knees had shaken and then unapologetically collapsed. A high-pitched ringing exploded in her ears, half-deafening her, but it still couldn't drown out the taunting mantra a little voice repeated in her ear: "He's found someone: someone else. Someone who isn't you." She thumped silently to the floor, embarrassed at her dramatic response but unable to halt it. Angela had made soothing noises of comfort, becoming increasingly over-cheerful the longer Brennan was silent. Eventually the anthropologist had responded with something very noncommittal and Angela had doggedly continued to chat inanely for a further ten minutes. Brennan had heard none of it: her mind was occupied elsewhere.

_And I thought of all the bad luck,_

All the fights she and Booth had. All of the squabbles, disagreements and blazing screaming matches. The unsettling swoop of fear when one had disappointed the other and the sudden flare of anger when each had refused to back down. They were so different, too different as it turned out, for a romantic relationship to develop smoothly. Almost every opinion was questioned; every decision was overruled. But it had worked for them, for a time at least.

_And the struggles we went through_

Everyone had adopted an 'well, it's about time!' attitude when they'd first become a couple and had assumed that their dynamic would continue: the respect and frustration would continually overflow on a daily basis, it would now just be accompanied by incredible make-up sex. And, in a sense, this was true. But things weren't…right. It wasn't as easy as it should have been. Each was determined to remain true to themselves but still wanted the other to convert to their opinions. In some cases, one or other of their beliefs were changed but it was always done with a hint of resentment that inevitably bubbled to the surface as time went by. After a while, Brennan found that she didn't recognise the person she was trying to become for Booth…and she didn't know who he was either.

_And how I lost me and you lost you._

For all of the hours that she'd spent contemplating this particular problem she still couldn't pinpoint what exactly had been so wrong with them romantically. The friendship was there, the trust, the respect, the love. Everything that should have made them work was present, it all just didn't fit together correctly. She'd spent months convinced it was her fault and an equal length of time steadfast in the opinion that the blame lay at Booth's door. But something had shifted between them. They were both restless and uncomfortable, uneasy in their new status.

_What are these voices outside love's open door_

There had been a honeymoon period, she was sure of that, although it was becoming more and more difficult to recall, lost in the months of jaded arguments. She was sure there was a time at the beginning when she'd passed her days feeling truly contented, when the delighted smiles of Angela and their co-workers were genuine…before doubt and confusion crept in as people began to see that the couple who were 'made for each other' just weren't compatable at all. So, if the happiness had been there, something must have altered, though it was hard to discern who had initiated the change.

_Make us throw off our contentment_

Even in that, supposedly, blissful period, had their relationship not lived up to their expectations? Had one or both of them begun to push things, to forcibly try to control the others thoughts and opinions? Why couldn't they have been happy with the way things were, with the people they were and the life they could lead together? Why did perfection and greed for events to occur exactly as they should overcome rationale until it was impossible to remember how wonderful everything had been, once?

_And beg for something more?_

Brennan blinked the tears away and awkwardly pulled her legs up onto the couch. Feeling somewhat foolish and self-indulgent, she gently wrapped her arms around her knees and let out a tiny sigh. She bit down hard on the inside of her mouth, trying to anger herself rather than allow the grotesque trembling of her chin to continue. This was fine. In fact, it was good. Booth moving on…gave her permission to move on too. Not that she needed permission. Or needed to move on. After all, she'd done that months ago. Unable to look around her desolate apartment and see the emptiness of her life staring back, Brennan buried her face in her knees and clamped her jaw firmly against the cry that was straining for release.

_I'm learning to live without you now_

Her routine hadn't changed. Yes, her workplace was different and her colleagues were very new and…well, new, but she hadn't let that deter her. She still set her alarm for the same time in the morning, still allowed herself five minutes to lounge after that appointed time, still jumped out of bed in a panic after only three of those minutes had passed…she frequented the same grocery store, read the same journals, drank the same coffee, listened to the same music…if anything changed, she was afraid she might forget him. And one forgotten detail could snowball into the erasing of his appearance, his personality, their relationship… So, no, she couldn't forget: she continued to torture herself with his memory each and every day until the stabbing pain in her chest and the constriction in her throat became normal, routine occurrences.

_  
But I miss you sometimes.  
_

She had spent hours turning over every detail in her head. In the beginning, there had been stagnant conversations with Angela as the artist tried to decipher what exactly had gone wrong, but these had quickly fizzled out when Brennan refused to divulge anything. Sympathetic observations from Jeffersonian employees, broken anecdotes muttered by F.B.I. members at crime scenes, hesistant memories recalled by the squints…all of this done in an attempt to help Brennan understand, to help her see things clearly and move on. But all they did was left her mind in a torrent of confusion; her thoughts swirling in an endless abyss.

_The more I know, the less I understand_

She thought she'd understood. Understood herself, him, them as a couple…but it all got lost in the translation somehow and she wasn't completely certain that she'd ever really known him. She'd assumed she knew love, if that's what her feelings were called, but it was so wildly unpredictable and ferociaciously strong that she began to doubt what she felt at all. Had she loved him? Had he loved her? Was she capable of love? Everyone had always told her that the best relationships were built on a foundation of friendship and all that they encompassed. But she and Booth had shared that, she presumed, and things had still been torn asunder. She had felt so sure about Booth; so rigidly certain that she knew him and what a relationship with him entailed. But she was left feeling ignorant and empty.

_  
All the things I thought I knew, I'm learning again_

It was becoming a secret obsession: a hidden ticking in the back of her brain. As time wore on, everyone assumed she had moved right along with it. But she hadn't. She couldn't. And all her silent moments were spent trying to discern exactly, down to the minute detail, how events had unfolded. That was how Brennan survived. She had to know everything. It didn't matter whether the enigma in question existed in the physical plane or not: it was a riddle that had to be solved.

_  
I've been tryin to get down_

Some days she thought she was honing in on it: it was her distaste for romantic gestures or his insistence on 'rescuing' her. Other days she was way off the mark: it was the fact that she always had to shower first in the morning or the headiness of his cologne. And sometimes the reasons she came up with were so bittersweet that her throat seemed to rip at the mere memory: her insistence that she bring him coffee in bed or his unfailing pattern of looking adoringly into her eyes when they made love. However ridiculous or painful, hypotheses were always good: for every reason she could dismiss, surely it would bring her closer to the truth.

_  
To the heart of the matter_

There were times, when the buzzing in her head reached fever pitch and the tingling in her limbs due to inactivity made her grit her teeth, that she wondered whether or not she really wanted to know what happened. She knew it wasn't particularly healthy the way she was acting. These weren't the actions of a sane, independent woman. But even this wasn't what troubled her. She was terrified of discovering that she, after all, was the one who had destroyed the best thing that had ever happened to her. And she wouldn't be able to forgive herself if that was true.

_But my will gets weak_

The nights were the worst. The darkness of the room would press in on her from all sides and, when her conscious was feeling particularly torturous, she would hear a phantom sigh; her heart would leap and then plummet as she realised her former partner was not lying beside her. And that he never would again. When this happened, she'd cry: heartbreaking, howling sobs that drained her physically and emotionally and left her with a pounding headache. The only upside to these occurences was that, afterwards, her body was so spent that she was briefly incapable of coherent thought.

_And my thoughts seem to scatter_

Ultimately, though, she knew it couldn't go on like this. She couldn't survive on memories of happiness and passion nor could the energy that enabled her to get through another day be fueled by anger and resentment. She had to let go, move on; accept everything that had happened between them and hold no grudges.

_But I think it's about forgiveness,_

She tasted salt as she darted her tongue out to lick her lips and realised that she was once again crying. The fire flickering behind her eyelids and the painful restriction of her throat made her throw her head back in despair. If she was going to live with all that had occurred, she would have to not only acquit Booth of any failings on his part; she would also have to purge the guilt that plagued her over her own actions.

_Forgiveness._

It was just so difficult to reconcile herself with this course of action when she knew what awaited her at its completion: nothing. She could grow to accept the pain of their break-up and the dissolution of their friendship, maybe even eventually get over it, but it didn't matter how quickly or how well she achieved this; she and Booth would never be together again. It made it so difficult to do the right thing, the necessary thing, when all the former affection and desire was gone. But, she would have to.

_Even if, even if you don't love me anymore._

Outside, the sky slowly streaked white as morning dawned. Still Brennan sat; cold, stiff, but determined. She would tackle this head-on. She would overcome her disappointment and seemingly crippling sorrow. Even if she never met Booth again, she would always love him in a secret place in her heart. And that would have to be enough. Unbeknownst to herself, the anthropologist nodded silently: her mind was made up.

In an apartment across town, Seeley Booth watched the rosy tint of the sun warm the morning sky. His skin felt tight, his bones ached. He had sat, unmoving, for the past four hours, simply watching the shroud of night hanging heavy over the streets in an effort to distract himself from his own thoughts. Thoughts of her. Of them. Temperance Brennan…he had dreamed of a day when it might have been Temperance Brennan-Booth. But it was not to be. And all he was left with was agonizing memories of happier days and the anger and guilt that he had let it all slip away. He knew, though, that he couldn't let these memories haunt him forever.

_But I think it's about forgiveness,_

He was moving on…or, at least, he was attempting to move on. He no longer visited the diner, he had erased her number from his cell. While he hadn't been able to bring himself to throw out his photos of her, he had put them all in a box and placed the box at the very back of his wardrobe. Most significantly of all, he had started a new relationship. Charlotte was warm and engaging. She had a sharp wit and a kind nature. They had met four months ago at a mutual friend's engagement party and had gone on their first date a little over three weeks ago. It was too early to tell whether he could see this going the distance…but he knew things would never really move forward unless he allowed himself to fully let go of Brennan. To let go of everything she had done, or couldn't do, and everything he had failed to be for her.

_  
Forgiveness._

Part of him wanted to escape the memory of Brennan and all that she meant to him. But part of him loathed himself for wishing to escape the relationship that had brought him the greatest happiness. He still had moments when he seriously considered driving like a lunatic over her apartment and begging her to give him another chance…or scream at her for all of the emptiness and hurt that pounded within him. He wanted to forgive. He needed to forgive, not only her, but himself and everything that had passed between them, together. But, during his less rational moments, he despaired that there was little point in forgiveness either. Forgiveness wouldn't bring her back. It mightn't even make him feel better. It would only help to reconcile himself with the fact that he loved her unconditionally…but this would never be reciprocated.

_Even if, even if you don't love me anymore._

His hand slammed against the glass as his shoulders shook. He couldn't even tell if he was crying or if his body was simply reacting to the boiling pain inside of him. After a few moments, he took a number of deep breaths and hastily wiped his suspiciously damp eyes. He leaned his fevered forehead against the cool glass and wondered if there was anyone, anywhere, in this whole godforsaken city who felt as wretched, alone, and broken as he did. He doubted it.

_Forgiveness,  
Forgiveness.  
Even if, you don't love me anymore._


End file.
